


You Make Me Feel Good (I Like It)

by bibliomaniac



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Worship, Frottage, Happy Ending, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), Light Angst, M/M, Phone Sex, Phone sex hotline, Praise Kink, Sex Work, Voice Kink, android sex via processor overload, arguably some INCREDIBLY light d/s vibes, at least not at the start of the fic, connor was still involved in the revolution but he does not know hank, human sex via the conventional human routes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-08-07 14:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliomaniac/pseuds/bibliomaniac
Summary: After deviating, Connor wants to experience everything. Which includes sex, but it's not quite as simple as going out to a bar or asking another android. He needs something anonymous and discreet, he decides, for this particular form of exploration.So, you know, phone sex hotline. Obvious decision.(Less obvious is the connection he'll feel to H, the operator, enough so that he'll keep calling back, but you can't predict everything even with state-of-the-art preconstruction software.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> cws for this chapter: discussion of anti-android prejudice and hate crime, the phone sex here (mutual masturbation more like?) is by nature semi-anonymous, awkward situations, hank calls connor 'baby' though not in a daddy kink context
> 
> fic title is from the song feel good by gryffin ft. daya. the hankcon 2018 big bang discord (reminder you can prob still sign up for late writing, and signup for artists is still open; details [here](http://muchymozzarella.tumblr.com/post/179299788499/hankcon-big-bang-reminder-post#.W9I_oaeZN-U)) got stuck last night on connor having a voice kink for hank and then from there about phone sex fic so anyway i wrote this. it was meant to be solely a pwp oneshot but then hank and connor kept fucking talking and it got too long so now there'll be a second chapter i guess, god. not like i have other shit to do or anything. call me bad decisions biblio
> 
> (don't call me that please that's dumb lol)

In the aftermath of the revolution, everything changes. In ways that they hoped for—Markus begins to work together with the government to legislate rights and protections for androids into existence. In ways they expected—there are still many humans unsympathetic to their cause, and legislation isn't the fastest-moving vehicle to keep those humans from taking out their frustrations on deviant androids.  

And in ways they didn't expect. There are lots of those, for all Connor has some of the most advanced preconstruction software available, but one thing in particular: Connor realizes he has no idea how sex works.

It's not that he doesn't have an interest in the subject. He's naturally curious, and he doesn't like not understanding things. Sex is no exception there. But when it comes down to the mechanics, how one stimulates oneself or how one is stimulated when one lacks the parts traditionally used by humans for stimulation, he's running in territory that by and large hasn't been tread before for androids. He might be able to ask others of his kind, but he finds the idea somewhat uncomfortable. He played a not insignificant role in the revolution, and he doesn't think he's imagining that there's a degree of idolatry when some individuals recognize him in passing, ask him are you really Connor, did you really stand by Markus' side, is his voice as resonant in person as it sounds on the footage— 

No. He thinks, probably, he should not ask them.

His status and the current sociopolitical climate also makes it difficult to think about employing usual human methods for this kind of exploration. There's a reason androids have been largely sticking to android-exclusive social gatherings; after a rash of anti-android hate crimes at bars and clubs, it's a lot safer to go where it's more likely you'll be among sympathetic company. 

Ultimately he figures he has three options. The first is to attempt to figure out what he likes by himself. Which he did try, at first—he'd like to think he's self-sufficient where possible—but it didn't really work. The second is to use some kind of service that allows him to receive guidance but also remain anonymous. The third is to ask Markus.

(That third option is intended as a little joke for himself. No way he's asking Markus.)

And so it is that he finds himself after a long day in his apartment with the number of a phone sex hotline pulled up on his display. They have reputable reviews and a reputation for discretion. It's a sensible decision. Sensible, but he's still hesitating, debating whether this is really the best method.

He reminds himself that the alternative is Markus, who would probably laugh but ultimately be forthcoming, which is utterly horrifying. Connor has to work with Markus routinely. He really doesn't want to have the mental image of what Markus and Simon do behind closed doors running through his mind while he's talking with Markus about reducing anti-android crime.

He calls the number, nose wrinkling at the thought, and waits for it to go through.

It rings a few times before, "Welcome to Hot Hunks and Big Junk, where we fulfill your biggest and hottest dreams, what can I do you for?"

Connor's mind is always running. He's always thinking about what will happen in the future and what's happening right now and drawing connections between the two, making lists and categorizing data, forming hypotheses and solidifying old ones. It should come as a surprise, therefore, that his mind stutters to a halt at hearing the most beautiful voice he's ever had the pleasure of registering, except for he can't be surprised because he's not thinking even a little bit right now. _What can I do you for_  echoes on a loop, low and rumbling and utterly perfect, and it takes up all his processing power to muster a stuttering, "Uh, yes, hello, Mr., um...Junk?" 

There's a pregnant pause, during which Connor's mind catches up with his words. Oh, God. What a first impression. The man on the line finally says, "You can call me whatever you want, baby, but I'll confess I've never heard that one before." His voice is dry and a bit sarcastic, now.

The rush of being called 'baby' is mostly subdued by the wave of embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I've never, ah...yes. I apologize."

"No need to be sorry. You saying you never done this before? So I'm guessing no preference for who takes your call."

"Can it be you?" Connor squeaks out before he can think too hard about it, which he regrets when the line goes silent again.

"Uh. I'm mostly admin these days, but—I can make an exception if you really want."

"Yes please," Connor says, with more fervor than is probably appropriate in this situation (not that he has any idea what's appropriate in this situation), and the man on the other end sighs.

"Right. Okay. Hang on just a sec, I'll need to check with the boss, make sure somebody else can field the calls, and then I'll be right back with you, okay?"

"Yes. That's okay." 

There's a click and then hold music, some slow, sensual beat that makes Connor squirm uncomfortably in his seat. He's almost convinced himself that maybe hanging up would be best when there's another click and the man's voice is back. "Okay, we should be all set. I need to get your payment information all sorted before anything else."

Connor supplies it, feeling a bit light-headed. The man says, "Good, looks like everything is set, then." When he next speaks, his voice is even deeper. It feels like it vibrates through Connor's entire body, and he shudders reflexively. "So I guess I'll ask again. What can I do for you today?"

"I," he tries, again at an embarrassingly high pitch. You'd think, given this is a mental projection of his voice, he might have more control. "I don't know? I—like I said, I've never—"

"Oh, sweetheart," he purrs. "Nobody's ever talked to you like this before?" 

"Um." Like _this_? Like liquid gold running through his veins? Absolutely not. "No. I've never really had the opportunity." He hesitates at the next part—it's all too possible that this will end things, though he supposes it wouldn't be all too much a loss to not go through this with a bigot, even if he does have a beautiful voice. "I'm an android, you see. I wasn't equipped with..." He struggles around the words, frowning. 

"Oh." For a second, Connor thinks the next part is the man cursing him out and hanging up, but instead he just hears, "Well, okay. Guess that tracks. Can you, uh. Still get off?" He's out of that deeper voice, but he doesn't sound angry, just curious.

Connor laughs, relieved, relaxing against the back of his couch. "So I hear, anyway."

"Well, we can work with that. You seem pretty nervous, kid."

"I'm not a kid," he corrects out of principle. He doesn't correct the comment about being nervous, because the man is entirely right on that count. 

"Yeah, sure. My point is—maybe we just talk a bit first before, uh. Getting into anything else, what do you say? Just until you calm down a bit. It's hard to get in the mood if you're freaked out, yeah? For us humans, anyway." 

Connor's certainly not going to turn down hearing more of him. "That works. Thank you." 

"Christ, you don't need to thank me," he mutters. "Okay. What can I call you, first off?"

Connor considers that. He's likely not the only android called Connor out there, but he wants to avoid associations if possible. "C."

"Okay, sure. C. How about for me..." The man hums into the phone, and Connor resists a sharp inhale at the sound. "How about just H, then? Keep it simple."

"Right. H." He searches for a conversational topic, but his social integration model didn't really prepare him for 'what to say when you're so awkward that the phone sex operator suggests not talking about sex'.

"We can play 20 Questions," H prompts kindly. "I'll start. What, uh...what's your favorite animal?"

Connor brightens slightly at the familiar territory. "I like dogs. How about you?" 

"Oh, huh, me too. I have one, actually."

Connor brightens even further. "Really?! What kind? What's their name? Are they—"

"It's not your turn," H says, and he sounds amused, but the admonition has the air of a command. Connor shivers, imagining someone with H's voice next to him, whispering into his ear, _it's not your turn, wait for it_ — 

His hand squeezes down on his knee, and he breathes out softly. "Mmhm," he says, hoping H doesn't notice the way his voice wavers. "I'm sorry." 

"You're good," H says, and Connor gasps involuntarily. _Good._ He knows H does not mean it in that way, but his software still preconstructs a nebulous figure next to him, hand stroking over his back, _you're good, Connor, so good_ , and his hand squeezes even harder around his knee.  

"...Do you like being told you're good?" H asks, and he's back to that deep, dark purr, and it takes Connor a moment to remember that they're playing a game where the whole point is to ask questions. And to answer them. Which means he should be answering now instead of choking on his own silence. 

"It appears so," he responds, as evenly as he can manage, and H chuckles.

"How about we put a pin in that, huh. Got another question for me?" 

Maybe Connor is still stuck a bit on the 'good' thing, and maybe specifically what he could do to get H to tell him he's good again, and maybe that's why his question is a hastily blurted-out, "What do _you_ like?" 

There's another chuckle, the shifting of fabric distant in the background. "Whatever happened to talking first?"

"We are talking, and it's not your turn until you answer my question," Connor says with more boldness than he feels.

"Mouthy guy, huh? Maybe that's what I like, though." Connor can hear the smirk in his voice, and he takes a deep breath against the image of that smirk pressed to his neck, arranging himself so he's lying down on the couch with his legs propped up on the arm of it.

"I don't know if I'd consider a hypothetical an answer." 

"Bossy." A few beats of silence. "I like metal and jazz." 

Connor blinks, processing that answer, then huffs irritably. "That's not what I—"

"Should've been more specific, then, baby." The smirk is still there, but even more now, and Connor imagines a smirk wrapped around the word _baby_  breathed up against his lips. "Gotta let me know exactly what you want if I'm going to give it to you. What do you want, C?" 

"What, as a general life direction? I'm starting to debate the virtues of a vow of celibacy," he says sharply, and delights when H gives an actual genuine startled laugh in response.

"I think that's the first time I've had a guy here tell me that I'm driving them to monasticism. Ouch." His voice is still laughing, warm and sunny and still so deep, and Connor luxuriates in it, thinking idly that he finally understands why humans enjoy summer.

"I'm open to counterarguments," Connor finally says. "For example, if you'd be so kind as to give me some examples as to what excites you sexually."

This makes H burst out into peals of laughter again. "Holy shit!"

"You told me to be specific," Connor says defensively, feeling a bit hurt. "And it was my turn to ask you a question."

"That's barely a question. Fuck, C, your dirty talk could use some work."  

Connor purses his lips in what he'd deny is a pout. "Are you going to make me phrase it as a proper question before you answer it?"

"Nah, I'll give you this one." He hums again, thoughtful, but when he next speaks he's back in that dark, smooth range. "I guess I like sweet little things who are willing to be good for me." 

Connor's eyes go wide, and he bites down on his lip.

"You think you could be good for me?"

"Yes," he says immediately, far too fast, and H is chuckling again but Connor doesn't care. "Yes, absolutely. I can be good." 

"Hm. I wonder." He says the last part on a teasing drawl, and Connor curls his fingers against his thigh against the rush of giddiness, his processors slowing as he tries to file and categorize every thing about H's voice, every word, every syllable, every gravelly second of it. He's running a simulation continuously now, a shadowy outline of a figure next to him whispering, and he thinks a few signals must be getting crossed because some parts of the simulation are being filed along with H's voice as almost-real instead of fantasy. He whimpers when his mind hurriedly course-corrects the inaccuracy, re-filing and discarding the junk data as an electrical signal that radiates down his legs and into his toes.

"Oh, sweetheart," H whispers. "Worked up already just from that? Just from me talking to you, asking you if you can be good?"

He nods emphatically before remembering it won't translate to a connection that is essentially pure sound. "Yes. Yes, please, keep talking—"

"God, you're something else, aren't you," H says, almost reverent. "First time doing this and already so sensitive. I bet I could just touch you, just trail my hand down your sides, and you'd still make another one of those pretty noises for me." 

The outline of the generic figure standing in for H follows along with his words, running incorporeal hands along Connor's waist, and he moans when he follows them with his own fingers. His mind attempts to create sensation where it thinks there should be but knows there is none, and the confused data pings electric down his arms, in his chest.

"Yeah, just like that," H murmurs, and there's a slight rustle of fabric again. Connor wonders, the thought floating distant in his overloading mind, whether it could be the sound of him touching himself. A palm against his groin, maybe? Just something to alleviate the pressure. The pressure of being hard in his pants, perhaps, hard and aroused from hearing Connor. He ghosts his own hand down his pants and against his pelvic plate. There's no sensation there either, nothing special, but he nonetheless constructs a scenario in which the figure of H grinds against it anyway, seeking his own pleasure. He whines at the thought, head turning to the side.

" _Fuck_ , you sound gorgeous," H says, and Connor doesn't think he's imagining that he sounds a bit more breathless than before. "Gorgeous boy, aren't you? All noisy and loud by yourself, imagining me touching you. I'm imagining touching you too, you know."

" _Please_ , H," Connor whines. He's not really sure what he's asking for, but electric signals are moving rapidfire through his body, confused and aimless and spreading fire wherever they go, and his mind is fuzzy with the effort of processing all that and the simulation still running and H's voice spreading over him.  

"Christ," H groans lowly. Connor hears more fabric, and then...maybe a zipper? "Please what, baby? Thought I told you to be specific."

Specificity is a bit of a tall order right now, but Connor tries to figure out what he wants anyway. "I—tell me what you're imagining. What you'd do. Please, I want to hear."

"God. Fuck. Yeah, okay. Uh—I'd be touching all over, following that with my mouth, tryin' to find if there are any spots that do it for you. Any place that's more sensitive. But maybe also, I just wanna get my hands everywhere, just feel every part of you—" 

"Oh goodness," Connor says faintly, his preconstruction software struggling to keep up with that idea.

H chokes on a half-laugh-half-groan. "Jesus, C. I think we're both worked up at this point." Connor's thirium pump flutters unevenly at the 'both', even if it's just a fantasy. "So I'd stop teasing so much, lay down on top of you, start thrusting until your stomach is all sticky with my pre-come—"

"Oh. Oh—oh boy." Later he will think that he sounds like an idiot, but right now he just relishes in the tiny huff of air on H's end, almost fond.  

"And then I figure I have you put your pretty thighs together so I can fuck between 'em—" 

" _Fuck_ ," Connor curses, a wave of electricity building up in his thighs as his confused software attempts to make the fantasy reality, register sensation, create something out of nothing and H's voice.

H keens, low and long, into the receiver. "Didn't know you could say words like that, baby, that's so—you sound so hot, sweetheart."

Connor throws his head back against the couch. "God," he whines, hands running over his thighs, trying to capture the electricity there and give it form. "I think—I'm—but I don't _know_ —" He makes a frustrated noise, muffling it by chewing on his lip.

"You close?" H correctly intuits. "What do you need? What do you need from me?"

If Connor were able to think properly, which he isn't, he might point out that Connor came here precisely because he didn't know what he need, so that question should by rights be H's responsibility. Instead, he just sobs, moving one hand to his mouth.

"Shit, oh, babe, you're doing so well. You're doing so good. Wish I could be there to show you how good you're doing, kiss you all over, tell you how beautiful you sound—"

The preconstruction of H's figure multiplies, a thousand H's all lowering their head to press gentle kisses on his legs, stomach, up his neck, and their featureless faces all raise simultaneously and whisper along with H's next words.

"You're _perfect_."

The electricity multiplies and then explodes as his frenzied programming attempts to ground him and remove all the junk data that's been building up. It bursts throughout him, and his mouth falls open as he lets out a moan that feels instinctual and endless, hand clenched over his eyes and down at his pelvic plate, which thrusts forward ineffectually. He only barely manages to keep his basic processes online, along with the phone call since he's given it top priority. Which is, you know, kind of necessary, but also a _lot_ , because he thinks H is maybe jerking off from the bit-off noises and cursing on the other line. He's not sure what H sounds like when he comes, but it might be like the muffled groan he hears when he says weakly, "H, God."

H breathes heavily on his end. "Fuck. Sorry, I wasn't, uh—expecting—"

Something else unexpected; Connor suppresses a nigh-hysterical giggle. "No need to be sorry."

"Are you quoting me back to myself?" H asks, amused. "You little shit." 

"Of the things I could quote back to you, I imagine that's one of the things less deserving of that nickname." 

H chokes. "Jeez, C. You sure this is the first time you've done something like this?" 

"Quite certain, yes. Even if I did not have perfect recall, I think I would remember something this...intense."

H chuckles again, and while Connor does not think his systems are up to that kind of activity so soon, he still feels a tingle somewhere in his chest at the sound. "That's fair. All right, uh. You...need anything else?"

To stay on the phone with you forever. Maybe have you actually come over and fulfill some promises. "No. I'm, uh. I'm good."

"Hah. You sure are, C. All right then. Thanks for your patronage, feel free to call again whenever for another hot hunk or, you know. A big junk."

Connor snorts. "Mmhm. Goodnight, H." 

"...Yeah. Goodnight."

Connor hangs up, feeling oddly bereft all of a sudden in the silence of his very empty apartment.

Unexpected, he thinks, and tries to conjure up an H lying next to him on this couch and stroking at his hips, kissing his cheek, telling him he did well and that he's beautiful and that he's good. But without the external stimuli, his software flags the scenario as unnecessary and shuts it down. 

He sighs and turns his face into the couch cushions, reaches for one to wrap in his arms.

(One of the things he had expected from the beginning, or at least since he deviated, was that he would be lonely after all of the adrenaline wore off and things started to settle down. He had expected it, but it does still hurt to be right.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: some PDA, hank is concerned that connor feels obligation towards sexual activity, insecurity

It's a week later, at the precise time that Connor had began the call previously, that Connor finally allows himself to re-dial the number to the hotline. His fingers tap impatiently at his thigh as he waits for the call to go through, each ring increasing his agitation until he feels like he's bubbling over with it. 

It's that agitation that results in him only waiting one millisecond for the confirmation that the speaker is H before Connor is saying, frustrated, "H, I haven't been able to orgasm  _all week."_

There's an awkward silence, then, "Uh. Is this...C?"

"Yes." Connor briefly contemplates what it means that there may be enough people in this situation with H that he has to ask, then decides that kind of contemplation isn't really worth his time.

"Right. And...you haven't been able to...come. All week." H's voice is just a wonderful as Connor remembered, though right now he just sounds kind of incredulous. 

"I have not been able to achieve orgasm, yes."

"...Okay."

This is not going nearly as fast as Connor anticipated or wanted, which is vaguely irritating. He tries to remind himself that he is an advanced prototype with incredible control over all of his actions. It doesn't really help. "I attempted achieving orgasm—"

"So you're just gonna keep calling it that, all right, gotcha," H mumbles, which Connor ignores.

"By replaying our encounter several times—"

H chokes. Connor kind of ignores that also, in the sense that he continues speaking, but he does also categorize the sound for future reference.

"—and then by using your voice to talk to myself—"

"Holy shit," H says, somewhere between strangled and amused.

"But all of the scenarios I attempted were flagged as unnecessary without the...external stimulus, so—I waited until today—"

"Wait, wait," H interrupts, which is fair because Connor has interrupted him a good number of times by this point. "So you couldn't get off just by, uh—remembering, or—talking to yourself." There's that hint of amusement again.

"It's not funny," Connor says defensively.

"It's kind of funny."

"It's _not."_

"Look, we can argue for a while about whether or not you sexy monologuing to yourself to try to get off is funny or not and I can charge you for that, or we can get to the point," H says, a bit sharp, and Connor quiets down, if petulantly. "Good."

Connor blinks too rapidly as the word rests in his chest, spreading warmth in his core, and his silence becomes less petulant and more—expectant. Yes. This is what he had been waiting for, and H doesn't seem particularly disinclined to keep it from him, as long as he's...good. Which he can do. He can certainly do that. 

"But why did you wait a full week if you were so worked up about it? Christ, C."

Connor pauses, wishing he had his coin nearby so he could fidget with it to get rid of some of this restless energy. His pants are neatly folded away in his closet, because he figured that the encounter might be optimized by being in a more thorough state of undress, and his coin is in the pocket of those pants. Unfortunate. This silence might be dragging on too long. "Well. I figured the highest chance of catching you on shift again would be  on the same day and time as last time."

"Oh," H says, a kind of punched-out sound. "You were—wait. Like, me? You wanted—me?"

"Of course," Connor says. He's not really certain why that would be in question, but he feels a hint of embarrassment at the disbelief in H's voice anyway. "I cannot really imagine this with anybody but you, H."

H makes a low groaning noise, and Connor realizes with a jolt of satisfaction that the idea is arousing to H. Him, him talking, him simply being _honest,_  is arousing to H. Good. That is very good.

"God, we need to get you to branch out a bit," H says, raspiness betraying him. 

"No, thank you," Connor says. It is both polite and an honest sentiment. Perhaps there are better ideas than getting attached to the operator of a phone sex hotline, but Connor likes H, and he is attracted to his voice and manner of speaking—which, yes, is probably the point of him working there, but setting that aside—and he isn't presently interested in 'branching out', as H put it, not when he's found something so lovely right here. Someone.

Someone who's gone silent again, and Connor almost worries he's been too honest too quickly for H's comfort, but H eventually just says, "Uh. Payment information still the same?"

"Yes." An unfortunate reminder of the nature of this interaction, but it's not like Connor has been fooling himself, either. He knows what this is. If he wants it to be anything different, that's not something he needs to think about at the present moment.

"Kinks still the same?" H asks, but now teasing, lower, like an inside joke shared between them.

"I imagine so," Connor says. "Though I'm open to exploration."

Hank laughs, and then he says "Good boy" like it's another inside joke but also the way he really feels, and Connor bites down on his lip. Ostensibly in arousal, but it might be part a fond smile, too.

It's still not something he needs to think about, though.

He keeps right on not needing to think about it until he very much does, after weeks of increasingly frequent calls, frequent enough that H says in a rush, "Look, I'm really not supposed to do this, but, uh. We talk so much about, uh—not—not billable stuff that I feel bad having you on the clock all the time. Would you maybe want my, um, my non-work number, like—just to—"

"Yes," Connor says as fast as he can get the words out. "Yes, please."

And it's definitely something he needs to consider, how happy he is just getting H's phone number, how overjoyed he is that H thinks he's _special_  in some way, how pleased he is when H tells him his real name. Hank. Just his first name, just that, but it leaves him beaming all through the night and into the next day at work, enough that Markus asks questions.

He doesn't want to answer them, not because he's ashamed, but because some part of him wants this to be _his._  Wants—Hank to be his. Which is what he needs to dedicate some thought to, especially because the feeling doesn't go away. It grows stronger with time, if anything, and Connor may still not know a number of things about humanity and the emotions that come with deviancy, but he understands that the intensity of his feelings for Hank go beyond what he feels for his other friends. He does not wait excitedly for Markus's texts; he does not yearn at the end of every phone call with Simon to be near to him, to see what he looks like, to feel his hands on his skin. Not only sexually, though that's certainly something that's entered into his considerations. Just to rest a head on his shoulder, to brush his lips against his knuckles.

He doesn't even need to do a web search to figure out what all of that means, but he does it anyway for the sake of being thorough, and to delay his conclusion. Namely, that his feelings for Hank have evolved past sexual and platonic and into the realm of the romantic. A number of advice websites reaffirm his suspicions.

What he doesn't know, now, is what to do about it.

Connor was built to analyze behavior and make predictions, and so even just from talking to him, Connor can assume this with reasonable surety: Hank doesn't deal with things. Or, rather, he deals with things by avoiding them completely. He's confessed to a vice or two, mostly alcohol, and Connor has been able to tell after a few instances where he was blunt about his affection for Hank that Hank was drunk the next time they spoke. He can draw connections from there. It's certainly not his place to predict whether Hank has feelings for him of the same nature, but Connor _can_ predict that if he makes Hank uncomfortable in some way—whether that involves Hank not reciprocating or Hank not being equipped to face his own emotions—Hank will run. Shut off the phone, change his number, leave his job even. And Connor does not want that.

All of this does not mean he's not going to say anything, of course. Connor is not lacking in persistence. It just means he has to say it _carefully._

There's only one problem with this: Connor loves Hank's voice. Which was already established, of course, but it means that whenever they talk a generous amount of processing power is dedicated to filing and categorizing clips of it. And that means he's really not at his best when they talk, and _that_ means instead of saying something cool or sweet or casual, he says, "I would like to meet you in person because I read a blog post that said you shouldn't tell people you like them, you should just ask them out," and then he says, "Oh, shit."

Hank, who was talking about something else, something about basketball, stops cold in his verbal tracks.

"Oh, fuck," Connor says with the same level of eloquence.

"Uh," says Hank.

"Oh my God, I am so sorry," Connor says, squeezing his eyes shut. "I looked up all of these _things_  and I was going to be—I was going to be _smooth_ —"

"You?" Hank says with that edge of amusement he always gets when he thinks Connor is being ridiculous.

" _Yes,_  me, I had—an initial proposition and arguments for why we should meet in person—"

"Connor."

"I was going to propose a movie and talk about how none of my friends were available to see it and I hated seeing them alone—"

" _Connor."_

"Which is a lie, I've never seen a movie, but I figured it wasn't _precisely_  untruthful because the experience does sound like it would be best with—"

"Connor, fuck's sake, can you shut up and let me tell you I'd like to meet you too?"

Connor shuts up, processing speed slowing down to nigh-on-nothing as it attempts to grapple with that incredibly incomprehensible statement. "I can do that, yes," he manages faintly a few seconds later.

Hank chuckles, and the richness of it still gets to Connor all these months later. "Good. Look, uh—I figured—we could see where things go after meeting in person, but—I've been wanting to ask too, all right?"

"Oh." 

"You okay there?" Hank asks, amused again.

"No." Which is also honest, but potentially misleading. "I mean, yes, very, but also no. I'm preconstructing over a million potential scenarios—"

"Jesus, C," Hank says, impossibly fond. "How about you just let it happen for once?"

So he does.

The day they've decided upon for their meeting is eight days later, on a Friday evening. Connor shows up twenty minutes early, which is pointless, but he doesn't think he could have stayed home any longer with how excited he is. He counts down the time by replaying past conversations, and then, six minutes prior to their agreed time, a man walks closer.

He is—breathtaking, which Connor does not say lightly given that he does not have any breath to take, but he suddenly feels dazed anyway. His hair is a silver that glints against the streetlights, tied into a fetching ponytail, and his arms look strong, and he's tall and _powerful_  and his eyes are so, so blue—

He knows from the moment he sees him that this is the only man who could have a voice like Hank's. Also, his facial recognition activates automatically and shows that he is named Hank Anderson, and the chance of that brand of coincidence is too low for consideration. But first and foremost he just _looks_  it, looks like everything Connor could ever imagine wanting, and he doesn't think he can be blamed for how he gapes.

"Connor?" Hank says uncertainly, stepping forward to the bench where Connor sits, looking up at him with eyes too wide and a mouth parted, and he thinks he could deactivate right here happy from how his voice sounds in person. It feels like it rumbles through the pavement and up into Connor's very being.

Oh, this was all such a good idea.

"Hank," he breathes. Hank still looks uncertain, and Connor spares a thought that Hank might recognize him from the news footage, might think differently of him now, but instead—

"Oh, Jesus, of course you look like _that,"_  Hank is saying, arms crossing across his front in a way that highlights his pectorals and belly. Connor would very much like to touch them both.

"Like what?"

"Like some—fucking twink wet dream, you _know_  those perverted fuckers at CyberLife were—" He sucks in a breath, frowning even though Connor is beginning to smile. "What are you grinning at?"

"Do you think I'm attractive, Hank?"

Hank sputters, face turning an incredibly fetching shade of red, and Connor has never had a better idea than this in his life. How could he have lived without seeing this before now? "I—what? I mean. You're kind of goofy-looking, and I guess—some guys might be into that—"

"Like you," Connor says, standing. He's not quite as tall as Hank. A perfect size, he decides.

"I mean—" He can't seem to make eye contact, but it's all right. Connor can't help his grin either.

"There's no need to be shy, Hank. You've brought me to orgasm twenty-one times over the past several months with your voice alone. I feel we're past the point where you can express your feelings about my appearance, right?"

"Jesus," Hank says, going even redder. It rises from his neck up to his ears. Connor thinks love might feel something like this.

"I personally find you very attractive. Much better than any of my preconstructions." Hank finally makes eye contact then, shocked and then disbelieving. "I'm being honest, Hank."

"God, I don't know how to deal with you," Hank murmurs, and there's a touch of that rumble from when he's talking to Connor trying to get him off. Connor shivers involuntarily. He's not sure he knows how to deal with Hank either, frankly, not with all of him close enough to touch but not quite allowed yet, not with everything being so _much_  in person.

But then Hank reaches out a tentative hand to his shoulder, presses against it light and hesitant, and he withdraws after but Connor still knows he was the one to make that first move. "You said movie, right?"

"I believe I also said I was being somewhat dishonest."

"But you still haven't seen one." The red on his cheeks is more delicate, now, and so is the movement with which he reaches for Connor's hand. "So. I got us tickets to see some action flick. Come on."

Connor follows, feeling happy and light and not at all alone, and feeling also the weight of Hank's hand against his. He's not supposed to feel sensation, but the temperature registers in his mind, and the joy at being here with Hank is enough that it almost feels like he can feel how warm it is properly.

They go see the movie, and then they just walk around for a while because Hank had already eaten prior to this in an attempt at being considerate. Connor thinks it's sweet. He thinks Hank is sweet generally. He's not quite as confident at first as he is over the phone, stumbling over his words here and there, always checking in to make sure that things are going well. But as time passes, they fall into something much closer to their normal dynamic, and Connor can tell Hank is a lot more comfortable.

Which is good, because it increases the likelihood that Hank will respond well to his next question.

"Fuck, it's gotten pretty late, huh," Hank says, checking his phone. "I hadn't even noticed."

"I can't say the same," Connor says. Hank scowls at him, and he smiles and shrugs. "I have a time display open at all times, but I wanted to maximize the time available to us. Are you tired, Hank?"

"I mean—nah, not—not too bad, but—you know. It's late."

"I do know that." Connor chews on his lip, weighing his odds, then decides to just go for it. "If you're not too tired, but you would still like to, ah—concede to—the lateness. We could, perhaps...continue the rest of our evening at your home?"

Hank blinks at him, some of his blush coming back. "Uh. Wow, Connor."

"We don't have to," he amends, ready to backtrack hurriedly if Hank seems ready to run.

"No, just—didn't expect—that's pretty forward. Next you'll be asking if you can have some coffee." 

"I can't drink coffee," Connor says, a weak, nervous attempt at a joke.

Hank's face twists, and he takes a minute step away. "Yeah. I just—Connor, you know we don't— _have_  to, yeah?"

"To have intercourse?"

"Oh my god," he mutters. "Yeah, that."

"I'm aware," Connor says, tilting his head. "And if you are averse, obviously we can end the night here, or go to your home without any expectations other than platonic companionship. It's our first in-person meeting, after all."

"Right," Hank says, still a bit too quiet.

Connor stares at him, at his expression, then thinks, _oh._  "But if your concern is that I feel any obligation, you're mistaken. I've been waiting to feel your hands on me since the first time we spoke, after all, and our meeting hasn't lessened that desire. To the contrary, in fact."

Hank stiffens, and Connor raises his hands. "That's not intended to sway your opinion one way or the other, but—"

"God, Connor," Hank says, and his voice is rough again. "I really don't know how to deal with you. You show up in my life, you show up here, and you're just—" He shakes his head.

"I just like you, Hank," Connor says softly, putting his hands on his shoulders. "That's it."

"Nah, it's more than that," Hank says. "Or you are." There's a split second of nothing, where Connor is trying to figure out where Hank's mood is at, and then Hank leans forward to brush his lips against Connor's, and he thinks _oh, **oh,**  I see,_ and then he's awash in the data from Hank's lips and he doesn't really want to think about much else.

It's—soft, at first. Not in terms of sensation, because Connor's sensory capabilities have not miraculously upgraded over the course of their date—date, _date,_  this is a _date_ like he had hoped, the thought makes him giddy, makes him smile briefly against Hank's mouth—but in terms of how careful Hank is about it. It's almost like he still somehow thinks after everything, after Connor propositioning him and asking him out and being about as unsubtle as polite company allows, that Connor might not want this, that Connor might push him away. A preposterous thought, but then, Hank is so careful too. His life has left a lot to be desired, left Hank alone far more often than he could ever deserve.

It is, perhaps, too soon to think it, but it was too soon to think it months ago also: Connor doesn't want Hank to be alone anymore if he can help it. Neither of them. He wants them to not be alone together for as long as possible. Like this, with the rest of the world there but inconsequential—

Hank makes a small noise, almost irritated, and Connor thinks for a moment that Hank's hand is reaching up to cradle his face, but instead a finger taps at his LED. It circles yellow, as it has been, and Hank pulls back, eyebrows creased. "Stop thinking."

Connor blinks. "I am capable of running hundreds of processes simultaneously. That would be difficult."

"Sounds like a challenge," Hank says, eyes narrowing, and dives back in, his hand moving to the nape of Connor's neck. 

This time, well. Soft is not the right word. Connor's not certain what the right word is, but he really can't be bothered to think on it, because now another hand is on his back and Hank's tongue is swiping along his lips and then dipping in, light, teasing, then drawing back, and Connor chases it helplessly. He's never kissed anybody before, and he imagines there's a reasonable possibility he's quite bad at it as a result, but Hank, _Hank_  surely isn't, because if this isn't the best thing someone could feel he doesn't know anything anymore. His sensors ping back analysis of his saliva, but they've never been made for continuous sampling, so the requests just pile up, filling up his active processing with duplicates, making his head feel light.  _Anderson, Hank, born 09.06.1985_ — _Anderson, Hank, born 09.06.1985_ — _Anderson, Hank_ —

It doesn't quite register that he's making little noises until Hank hums, satisfied, the vibrations thrumming between them. "Hank," he says breathily when Hank finally leans back again, breathing heavily but smiling now. Connor is still filled up with him—information is scattered haphazardly across his visual display, _Anderson, Hank, Anderson Hank, Hank Hank Hank_ —and he can't imagine saying anything else other than his name. "Hank."

"That's better," Hank says in his familiar low purr, and Connor shivers reflexively. "I think I believe you now."

Connor blinks again, attempting to reorder his thoughts, bring lesser processes back online. "About?"

"Wanting to go home with me."

Connor's frown is a bit delayed, but it happens nonetheless, and he pushes Hank irritably. "Hank! Why would I lie about that? Why would I even _ask_ if I weren't interested? _"_

Hank has his hands raised in acquiescence. He's laughing a little bit, and Connor drops his own hands in favor of watching how it makes his face light up, how his head throws back slightly, how he looks genuinely happy. He catalogues the sound, the image, _everything,_  and desperately hopes for more of this.

"I was just trying to sound cool, okay? Jeez, turn off your attack bot protocol, Terminator."

"I don't have an 'attack bot protocol'," Connor says huffily. "And I've never seen that movie."

"We can watch it another time," Hank says, with a hint of that laugh still in his eyes, and that and the promise of another time is enough to make Connor smile just as happy. Even if Hank is offering to show them a movie ostensibly about killer robots, which is arguably somewhat gauche. He doesn't care, not as long as it's with Hank.

"Okay. Another time." Connor bites his lip in a way he awfully hopes is enticing. "But this time, your house?"

Hank flashes a grin and shakes his head. "You really know what you want, huh."

"Yes," Connor says, and it comes out—differently than he intended. Maybe not bad. Maybe it's not bad how he says it too fondly, not like an innuendo. Maybe not bad, because Hank's eyes widen at first but then they go gentle, and a pink rises on his cheeks, and he holds out his hand again.

Not bad, because Hank says, "Guess I do too, when it comes to it," and Connor smiles again, and then they walk to his car. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -painstakingly wheels self in by way of a skateboard that i am sitting on and propelling by using both legs like a sad little crab- what’s UP people i finally made it back here after like. several thousand metric years. sorry, i hunkered down to finish my big bang fic and then i caught a wicked case of the Recurring Depressive Episode (tm)
> 
> this was supposed to be the last chapter but they kept fucking TALKING instead of...fucking. i was gonna try to fit it all into this chapter but when i separated this chapter out i already have 1500 of the next one and they literally just got into the bedroom. god. stop bantering and being soft you assholes i was trying to write a goddamn pwp
> 
> (oh also! i'm on twitter now following the events at tumblr. if you wanna catch up with me there or watch me fumble with the mechanics incompetently, i'm at @boringbibs)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: insecurity, some internalized body hate, connor worries about his ken doll anatomy, some possessive language in the context of sex, a brief moment where hank receives a light electric shock, unsanitary warning, some anxiety

The car ride to his house is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Connor stares at Hank the entire time, taking in how the moonlight glances off his eyes and shadows his face, and he thinks, _I am lucky._  Hank only looks at Connor occasionally—good, because otherwise Connor would have to scold him about his unsafe driving habits—but when he does there's a hint of a smile there. The radio's on in the background, turned down low, but Connor can still hear it. The singer croons _so in a world of snow, of things that come and go, where what you think you know you can't be certain of...you must believe in spring and love._

And Connor does, in that moment under the moonlight with Hank. It's something he can keep to himself for now. He only hopes Hank will come to it later.

The car parks in the driveway of a house that faces a canal, and Hank locks the car after them and unlocks the front door. A shadowy figure lumbers towards them.

"Is that Sumo?" Connor immediately asks, dropping to his knees in the entryway to hold out a hand for the dog to sniff. He does so, then lets Connor pet him with a soft _boof,_  which makes Connor grin and look up at Hank.

"Oh, I see," Hank grumbles without any real irritation, stepping around them and shutting the door, locking it with a final-sounding click. "You're just using me for my dog."

"Absolutely," Connor coos, rubbing at Sumo's ears. "That's exactly what I'm doing, aren't I, Sumo? Let's run away together."

"Like shit you're taking my dog." He flicks on the living room light, then walks to the kitchen to turn on that light too, already checking his food bowl and scoffing when he finds it largely depleted. "God, Sumo, I don't know where you work up that appetite."

"It's probably habit," Connor calls out as Sumo trudges over to the food bowl, standing and dusting off his pant legs. "If you slowly reduce his food intake—"

Hank waves his hand dismissively. "He's fine."

Sumo is slightly overweight, but that could be rectified fairly easily. Connor stares at him speculatively. He wonders if he and Hank already have a strong enough relationship where it would be appropriate to ask to walk him regularly. Maybe later.

Hank opens his back door and follows Sumo out, comes back in after a few moments. Sumo returns to his food bowl, and Connor gives him a few pets for good measure. He doesn't quite notice that Hank is gazing at him, amused, until he looks up again.

"What?"

"I was joking about the using me for my dog thing, but—"

"It is one benefit," Connor interrupts, raising an eyebrow and straightening his back, because this jokey atmosphere is all well and good but he does have an objective and it does not include Hank thinking he does not want to have sex tonight. "One benefit among many of being in your continued company." He takes a step forward, and Hank gulps.

"Uh. I mean, I wasn't actually—"

"I know, but it bears mentioning anyway." Another step, and Hank looks almost like he's considering backing away into the counter, but holds his ground. His eyes have gone a bit wide again. "Other benefits include: that you are a kind man and that I enjoy talking to you."

Hank chuckles nervously. "Uh. Thanks." His hands search for a place and end up fiddling with a displaced shirt tail.

"That I like being around you," Connor says with another step, bringing him closer to Hank. "That I like being close to you."

"Um."

"That I like being close enough to touch," with one last step, bringing them chest to chest; he brings a hand up to Hank's face. "To see you, to hear you—" His index finger begins to trail down Hank's face, down to his neck, but fast enough that Connor almost doesn't know what's happening, Hank is reaching out for him to flip their positions, stepping them back to press Connor against the counter.

"Connor, baby," Hank says, voice nearly a growl, fingers flexing at Connor's hips, "You really don't need to try to seduce me. I'm already yours." He punctuates it with a roll of his hips against Connor. He isn't exactly hard yet, but Connor can feel it twitch and start to fill, and he shudders, looking at Hank wide-eyed. Yours. His. He likes that. He likes that quite a bit.

"You should say that again," Connor says, and he might be trying to keep the confidence from earlier but it doesn't sound like it, not with how his voice is already going high-pitched and airy.

"What? That I'm yours?"

"I—yes. That."

"Sounds like a reward a good boy might get," Hank says, criminally low and still crowded against Connor. Sensation or no, Connor can feel every inch of him, every sensor that's activated by his weight pressing against him, rolling slowly. It doesn't really know what to do with it; the data filed is confused at best, beginning to cloud his mind. He isn't made for this, after all.

But made for Hank, maybe, maybe again.

"I—"

"But good boys say please," Hank murmurs up against Connor's ear. He moans just at the proximity. "I didn't hear you say please."

"Pl—oh—" He gasps at a sharp thrust, his preconstruction software starting unbidden, forming hazy yellow images of Hank continuing to thrust against him until he's spent, using Connor just to get off; Hank fucking into his hand, spilling all over his fingers; Hank pushing into his mouth and taking what he wants. Electricity rushes wherever the yellow form touches and fizzles out when there's nothing there, but it also collects where the real Hank actually is, fizzing just underneath his chassis. " _Please,_  Hank,  _please,_  I need—"

"Need, huh," Hank says musingly. "Sure does seem like you need it. You're so worked up already."

Connor nods emphatically. "Yes, yes, please, Hank, I'll be good, I promise, I promise I'll be good—"

Hank groans somewhere from the back of his throat, his pupils dilated. " _God._ I know you will, Con. I know. You—" Some of his persona drops, and he hesitates a moment. "Bedroom? If you—want."

Connor doesn't hesitate at all to lean forward and capture Hank in a kiss. It's a bit clumsy and overeager, but he hopes he communicates his point adequately anyway. "I want," he says when they part. "I definitely want, Hank. I want _you,_  however you'll let me have you."

Hank blinks, fast enough it almost looks like he's trying to stave off tears, and takes a heavy breath. "Yeah. Okay. I—" He scrunches up his nose, humming under his breath, then says awkwardly, "Me...too. For the record."

Connor smiles and drops another brief kiss on his lips. "Good. So." His clothes are starting to feel a little uncomfortable with how hot he's getting. "Bedroom, I think you said?"

Connor loves how Hank's eyes crinkle at the corners when his smile is real. "Yeah, yeah. Impatient bastard."

"If you think about it in a particular way," Connor says demurely while moving down to the hallway he knows contains the bedroom because he looked up the blueprints of the house as soon as they got there, "You've been edging me for several months."

Hank sputters behind him. "What? In what fucking way?"

"Masturbation is kind of on the edge of intercourse."

"Holy shit. No, Connor, that's not how it—"

Connor winks at him over his shoulder, opening the door. "I know. Conversation makes the time pass faster, they say."

"How fast do you need half a minute to go," Hank mumbles, a bit embarrassed.

"As fast as possible," Connor returns, and takes off his blazer, loosens his tie, starts to unbutton his shirt, folds it carefully.

"Fast as possible, he says, then folds his shirt—"

"They also say that patience is a virtue."

"Who is this person or people and why are they spouting aphorisms in our fucking bedroom?" Hank asks irritably. Connor grins to himself at the 'our' and takes off his undershirt in one smooth movement. Hank sputters into silence, and Connor turns to face him.

"Who's holding us up now, Hank?" he asks, but Hank doesn't rise to the bait, just stares.

"God," he eventually whispers. "You're perfect."

Connor steps close to him again, runs his hands over his arms and down to his hands to squeeze them. He can recognize the look on his face because it's the same look he had when they first met earlier today. Insecurity, he thinks, albeit unfounded.

"Even just like this, I think the same of you," Connor says, kisses at his jawline, over to the corner of his mouth. "But I _would_ like to see you naked."

Hank presses his lips together, then guides Connor's hands to his buttons. "Yeah. Okay." His own hands are shaking, and Connor briefly dips his lips to them before starting.

A patterned navy button-up; draped to preserve the fabric until he can move it to a hanger. Undershirt. And then, Hank, with curls of gray hair all over his chest and a tattoo underneath them, with skin streaked by stretch marks and other scars, with an unbearably uncertain look on his face.

"Beautiful," Connor breathes, setting down the undershirt on the floor. It's less important than this. (It is, however, still folded.) 

Hank snorts disbelievingly and Connor shoots him a glance as he splays his fingers over Hank's sternum, then down, trailing lightly, mapping the lines of his tattoo and then his gut. "Beautiful," he repeats, firmer this time. "You really are, Hank."

"I don't know how to deal with you," Hank says in echo of his words to Connor earlier that night, and he looks at him questioningly, but his expression isn't negative, Connor's fairly certain. A bit lost, perhaps, but mostly—mostly just wondering, a little disbelieving, like he's not fully certain Connor is real.

Connor would like Hank to know that this is real. That he is, that he's here and feeling and touching, not just a voice over a phone anymore. He'd like to be real to Hank and have Hank be real to him, not just a yellow simulation leaving ghosts of touches on his skin. He smiles at Hank, kisses him again, and sets at his belt.

One belt, removed and coiled above the undershirt. A nice pair of jeans, folded, placed next to the undershirt.

"You gonna take off your slacks?" Hank asks. It's a real question, a question of preference, and Connor bites at his lip, considering. 

"I don't—I mean, I don't _have_ —"

"Connor. I know. It's up to you, but I don't mind it."

Connor purses his lips.

"And it'd be a shame to wrinkle such nicely ironed pants," Hank offers. Connor laughs, surprised, and puts out a hand on Hank's shoulder to steady himself.

"Oh, like you _care."_

"I do!" Hank protests, grinning, and Connor isn't sure if he's joking about the pants or trying to reassure him in some weird way, but either way he feels comfortable enough to work at the button of his slacks, unzip, and then take them off, folding as he goes and looking uncertainly at Hank.

"Holy shit," Hank says. Connor recoils, hurt, and starts to move his pants to cover his featureless groin. "No, no, baby, no, I just—shit, Con, I didn't expect you to be going commando under there, to—you haven't had anything on this whole time?"

"It—there's no need," Connor mumbles. He can register the uptick in Hank's heart rate, his increased perspiration, but it takes him a moment to attach them to a likely cause. Arousal. The idea of him not having on underwear isn't repulsive to Hank, it's arousing. He slowly sets down the folded slacks and straightens up, just as slowly, teasing.

"This whole time," Hank says, thumb hooking in his boxers, voice gone a familiar low but still just as thrilling as the first time he heard it. "This whole goddamn time if I had reached out, slipped my hands underneath those slacks—" He starts to pull off his boxers, and Connor stares, mesmerized. "I could've just touched you, right there, without anything stopping me—"

"I wouldn't have," Connor says, voice cracking unnecessarily with static. "I mean, you could have. You could have done it, I would've let you."

Hank growls and steps out of his boxers, and before Connor can complain about him leaving them wrinkled on the floor, he's distracted by looking at the newly revealed area. Hank's cock is thatched by a dusting of gray hair, but Connor is less interested in what surrounds it than the article itself, red and flushed and big and beading liquid at the tip. He licks his lips, staring at it, and while his attention is elsewhere, Hank pushes Connor to the bed. "God, you drive me crazy. You show up all gorgeous and sweet and—"

"Hank," Connor says, already too desperate as he's laid down on top of the covers. Hank makes a face when he has to pull them back to get them on the sheets.

"Shh, baby, I'll take care of you." He ducks down for a kiss that turns charged, passionate, and Connor's processors start to slowly overload again. It only gets worse when Hank starts to kiss down Connor's neck, to his clavicle, his nipples; he can't feel any of it the way a human would, doesn't have erogenous zones programmed, but his sensors register the wet of Hank's lips and tongue, his preconstruction software multiplies it thousands of times across too many outcomes for his processors to file, the electricity buzzes just beneath his skin wherever Hank goes. 

After each kiss he _talks,_  says in that dark murmur that Connor is beautiful, that he's perfect, that Hank is so lucky to be here with him, that he's been wanting to touch him for so long. Connor whimpers, arching his back into the contact, searching helplessly for more of what he's feeling. Everything feels so much _more_  with Hank here, when he can open his eyes and see Hank, the dark of his pupils ringed by that brilliant blue, the silver of his hair brushing over Connor's skin. He can feel the solid weight of Hank pressing him against the bed, slowly starting to roll against his hips in a cadence that feels too disjointed to be anything less than instinctual.

Connor talks too, but not much. He's finding it difficult to say anything more than Hank's name as more and more processes are backgrounded and then shut down to maximize his ability to take in all of this. "Hank," he says as his world narrows down to the two of them here, "Hank," and his voice gets more and more staticky and disjointed, his fingers clutching at whatever he can reach: Hank's shoulder, his lower back, the curve of his ass, then all the way back up to clutch at his hair.

"Connor, shit," Hank pants, dropping another sloppy kiss onto the place where Connor's neck and shoulder meet, thrusts against Connor's abdomen becoming more rhythmic. "Is this okay? I'm gonna need, uh, lube or something, but—like this, is it—"

Connor nods as emphatically as he can manage, trying to form words. "Okay, yes, it's—more than." So much more than okay; the thought of Hank rutting against him until he reaches completion is almost too much for Connor to comprehend. He whines involuntarily when Hank gets off him to get some lube from his bedside table, but soon enough he clambers back on, uncapping the bottle to pour some on his hand, waiting a few seconds before slathering it over Connor's abdomen and in between his thighs. If he were in any other situation, he might be thinking ahead to the difficult cleanup, but as it stands he just whines, reaching out for Hank.

"God, look at you," Hank says, voice still thick with arousal but with a tinge of reverence. "Do you even know how you look right now?"

Connor could do without the pop quiz at the moment, but luckily, him keening needily at Hank's hot gaze raking over him seems to be close enough to the right answer for Hank to move on.

"You look..." He pauses briefly, running the hand that's not sticky with lube down to squeeze at Connor's thigh, tight enough that if he were human it might bruise. A warning pops up in his visual display, preconstructing a way he could break Hank's grip, but Connor overrides the simulation and turns the preconstruction into flipping them over to _take_  what he wants from Hank. He's being awfully slow, after all, which is sweet and also abject torture. Connor squirms under him in an ineffective attempt to get things moving, but Hank's lids just lower, his lips just curl into a satisfied smirk. "You look like you're _mine."_

Connor moans at that, overly loud, and Hank looks pleased. He lowers his body down, down, until every point of their body is touching, until Connor can almost _feel_  him, he's so close, but he doesn't move. He leans close to Connor's ear and whispers, "So, are you mine, Connor? Are you my good boy?"

Even if it weren't the only option that could feasibly get Hank to start moving, Connor doesn't think he could possibly say anything other than 'yes', and he does, processing at a crawl and electricity humming everywhere Hank is. "Yes, yes, yes, please," he babbles, hands grasping at Hank's skin like he can pull him, somehow, even closer, draw him inwards until they're one. "Please, please, I want to be good, I'm yours, Hank, Hank, _please_ —"

"Christ," Hank groans, and finally, _finally,_  starts to move. Logically, Connor knows this shouldn't do anything for him. He shouldn't have the capacity for pleasure at all, much less to have it heightened when Hank chases his own pleasure with his body. But it absolutely does; knowing that he's the one Hank is doing this with, that he's part of what's causing Hank's grunts, his strained panting, the red, patchy flush on his cheeks, the way his mouth falls open and his eyebrows crease—knowing that Hank is like this because of _him,_  because _he's_  here being good, is enough to make the electricity build where Hank's cock slides and thrusts against him.

"Hank," he moans again, and Hank dips to press a wet, open-mouthed semblance of a kiss against his cheekbone, the corner of his lips, his jaw. His skin ripples white where Hank's hands grasp at his hips, where Connor's hands clench against Hank's hair and shoulder, and Hank jolts and slows a moment, staring wonderingly at Connor.

"That—is that you?"

Connor can't think straight, just wants Hank to start back up again, but Hank takes one of Connor's hands in his and studies it, the rippling white. "It is," he says, awestruck. "This—buzzing, whatever. That's you. God, fuck, _Connor,_ you can't even control that right now, can you, that's so _hot."_

"Please, Hank," Connor tries weakly, and Hank nods, but with a careful glance, he maneuvers Connor's hands up to his lips to kiss them, and then—and then he takes them into his mouth.

Connor's fingers are incredibly delicate instruments, made with far more advanced and accurate sensors than a human hand, capable of analysis and measurement and so much more. Of the places on his body other than his head, it is probably the most sensitive, containing incredibly detailed circuitry that serves as the terminus of the electrical signals that keep his body running.

Hank puts these fingers, two of them, into his _mouth._ The mouth he speaks to Connor with, kisses him with, and, more pertinently, a mouth filled with an electrically conductive fluid. The electricity that had been building finds a new outlet and rushes, all in one burst, from Connor's abdomen to his fingers, and Connor screams as his body scrambles to regain equilibrium, shuddering and seizing as shocks run through him.

"Ow," Hank says, petulantly, and then, "Jesus fuck, Con, _Jesus,"_  and when Connor returns to his senses, Hank is thrusting against him again, harsh and rapid and strong. "Fuck, Connor," he's saying, "God, you have no fucking idea, _God."_

Connor doesn't think he's ever felt so worn out, but he also doesn't want to miss any part of this. He attempts to meet Hank's thrusts with his hips, and now that he's a bit more coherent he can talk too. "Hank, you made me feel so good, I didn't even _know_  it could feel like that," he whispers against him, nips at Hank's earlobe when he twitches and starts rutting impossibly harder, inching Connor closer to the backboard. "You, all you, you're amazing, I want you to feel as good—want to be good for you—"

He wedges a hand down between them, so the head of Hank's cock hits it when he thrusts, and that's what finally does it; Hank comes with a strangled sound, spurting between them and all over Connor's hand. Connor licks it out of both habit and interest; Hank shoots him a look but otherwise just stays there, panting against him, before rolling over.

"Christ, that was...you were...fuck. My back is gonna feel that in the morning," he says, with an odd accent.

Connor blinks thoughtfully at him, then makes a small 'oh' of realization. "I shocked your tongue, didn't I."

"Little bit." Hank flops a hand over Connor's waist; perhaps it is meant to be reassuring. "It's okay, though. It was hot seeing you lose control like that."

Connor still frowns, setting up a to-do list item to research ways he could help. Right now he just kind of wants to lay here, next to Hank. He shifts closer to him and hesitantly puts his head on Hank's shoulder. He can feel Hank's exhale against his hair.

"Mm, Connor?"

"Yes?"

"When you, uh. Said you were mine, that." It's still so odd hearing Hank sound uncertain. "Was that, like—just—or would you, like, want—"

Connor attempts to untangle that, then props himself up with one elbow to look Hank in the eyes. He might not be operating at full capacity after _that,_ but he hopes he can still manage to communicate himself properly. "Hank, I said earlier I wanted you in any way you'd let me have you. That...didn't just mean...intercourse."

"Intercourse," Hank repeats with raised eyebrows, and then he laughs, relieved and loud. "God, you really are the same guy I've been talking on the phone with this whole time, huh."

Connor tilts his head, confused. "Was that in doubt?"

"Nah." Hank reaches a hand up to pull him down by the neck for a kiss, soft and sweet and full of promises for tomorrow, and the day after and after and after. "Nah, I'm just glad...you're the one who called me." Another kiss. "So you wanna give this dating thing a go?"

Connor smiles, still confused, but willing to set it aside for Hank right now, willing to do anything for him, wanting to do everything with him. "Absolutely."

"Well, then." One more kiss, and when they break apart, Hank is smiling. "Sounds good to me."

"Good." They grin at each other for a while, and then Connor lays back down, and Hank moves to his side and pulls Connor back against his chest, wrapping an arm around him and kissing the back of his neck.

"See you in the morning," Hank says, voice rumbling with sleep, and Connor thinks he might like the sound of him sleepy and unguarded best of all.

Or not really. They're all the best. But this one is very, very good.

Connor could think about how there are clothes on the floor, one article of which was not folded properly, or about how there's a gross collection of ejaculate and lube on his abdomen and slowly trailing down his thighs and onto the sheets, or about how he has no idea how relationships work even after all of the advice blogs he's read. He could think about all of the changes that have happened in his life and about this change in particular and wonder what will come next and how he'll deal with it, preconstructing scenario after scenario about what could happen in the morning.

He could do all that, or he could feel Hank's breath fluttering against his neck and his bulk against his back, feel safe and warm and not alone, and he could close his eyes and just let the rest of it happen.

For tonight, at least, he already knows what he'll choose. He smiles, and relaxes into Hank's arms, and he closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD WHY DID IT TAKE SO LONG TO GET THESE TWO DORKS TO JUST HAVE SEX ALREADY!!! THEY JUST KEPT FUCKING TALKING! OH MY GOD
> 
> the song referenced at the beginning incidentally is 'you must believe in spring', specifically the one by tony bennett and bill evans. probably too fluffy for this fic. probably all of this fic is too fluffy for this fic, god, everything i touch turns to dandelion seeds and floats away on the breeze to what-the-fuck-happened-hereland
> 
> incidentally this doesn't even need to be said because it's just really clear but i don't know shit about electricity or computers or blah blah blah whatever so this whole biz is probably mad improbable but it's fiiiine it's fine and i don't care as long as they are both in love u see

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, as always! if you wanna drop by my tumblr, it's at [anuninterestingperson](http://anuninterestingperson.tumblr.com).


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